Page 63 of Invisible Bars
Daphnee was probably frantic, worried sick about where I had disappeared. I quickly navigated to her contact information and hit "call," but instead of the familiar ringing sound, I was greeted by the voice of the operator, indicating that her phone was likely off.
Panic began to creep in. I wondered if my own phone was malfunctioning. I dialed her number again, but there was nothing—no ringing, no response. Feeling a sense of urgency, I decided to send her a quick text, hoping that at least the message would go through. When it failed to send, my frown deepened. In an attempt to troubleshoot, I switched to one of my coworkers' contacts and sent a message. Unfortunately, I received the same discouraging outcome.
Confusion washed over me. I had just paid my phone bill recently, so I was certain there shouldn’t be any issues. The sinking feeling in my stomach told me that something was wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it could be.
Why was my phone acting up?
With a deep breath, I set the phone aside, figuring I’d deal with it later.
I slid out of bed and moved toward the bathroom. My legs felt a little wobbly at first—probably from the long rest—but after a stretch and a yawn, I was good.
I went through my morning routine slowly. I let the steam from the shower melt some of the tension out of my shoulders. By the time I wrapped myself in a towel and wiped the fog from the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.
Less puffy eyes. Less sadness. Still quiet. Still guarded. But… softer somehow.
After lotioning up and slipping on a clean pair of black leggings and an oversized gray T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, I moved to the mirror and pulled my hair into a simple, sleek bun.
My go-to.
Then I caught it—the aroma of breakfast.
My stomach grumbled like it had a voice and was ready to cuss me out for ignoring it for so long. Still, I didn’t move right away.
I stood at the bedroom door, hand on the knob…listening.
I wasn’t surewhoI’d run into first.
Imanio? The chef? Ms. Shirley? Someone new?
So I moved carefully and quietly like a thief sneaking through a house that didn’t belong to them. I tiptoed into the hallway, heart lightly thudding in my chest, alert mode fully activated. Every creak in the floor, every faint voice from somewhere made me pause—not out of fear.
Okay… maybe a little.
But more out of habit. I wasn’t used to safety yet, and I damn sure wasn’t used to feelingseen.
I wasn’t even sure how many square feet the house had, but I was already learning that the kitchen felt like its own tiny restaurant—complete with staff.
I paused in the doorway, almost too nervous to step in.
That’s when I saw her.
Ms. Shirley.
She stood at the stove, graceful and composed, flipping something in a cast-iron skillet like a woman who knew her way around both foodandwisdom. Her silver-streaked bun was pinned up neatly, apron tied tight, and she wore pearls like it was Sunday morning.
She turned and smiled the moment she noticed me—a big, warm, mama-type smile that felt familiar even though I didn’t know her.
“Good morning, sweetie. You hungry?”
“Y-Yeah, I-I could eat.”
Especially after being drugged into a peaceful sleep.Those were my thoughts, though.
My head jerked lightly to the side, and I blurted out, “Eat-eat-a tree!Sorry!”
Ms. Shirley didn’t make a face. In fact, she just laughed—a rich, deep sound that filled the room like music from an old jazz record.
“Mmm. That sleep cocktail I slipped you in that juice?” she said, as if she had a backstage pass to my thoughts. “It’s been putting grown men out for years.”
